


Formerly the Lion of Ferelden

by McLavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Cullen Smut, F/M, I'm Sorry, M/M, Orlais
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McLavellan/pseuds/McLavellan
Summary: This is semi crack, smut, drama... Something. It's a hot mess. But it was in my head and now it's getting out.Cullen marries an Orlesian Duchess to promote her social status among his admirers at the Winter Palace in exchange for soldiers and influence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm British so the bants is pretty much the ongoing influence of the British/French rivalry. I'm sorry for my terrible French. And this whole thing is just going to get worse.
> 
> Enjoy.

"I don't understand. You said this wouldn't affect my duties here. You said this would AID us."

"And it will," Leliana assured Cullen, voice calm. "You just need to go visit one of your new properties for your honeymoon. Meet the family."

Cullen pounded his fist on the table. Just once at first but, unsatisfied, he struck it a few more times in rapid succession. "Just a piece of paper. A political marriage. Meaningless. That's what you said."

Leliana, losing her own patience, looked firmly at him. "Your new wife has requested it. If you want your army to grow as she's promised, you will obey her.”

Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Ferelden, former Knight Captain of the Kirkwall Gallows, current Commander of the Inquisition's armies, was now Duke Rutherford of Salmont, by marriage to the Duchess Rutherford, formerly Marchand, more formerly Dubois, and even more formerly Du Casperge, née Mont-Gruyere.

He was husband number four, a whim of the Duchess’s and part of an agreement to gain her private army, along with a lot of sway among the Orlesians still uncertain even after the events at Halamshiral. It had been among the most painful moments his life, and there had been so many of those. So many. 

Within the hour his bags were packed. Actually, he hadn't brought much with him to the ball, the bags were new. Purchased by his… Wife. He didn't feel comfortable with that word. Nor what those cases might contain. Poncy, frou frou, frilly fucking-- why had he agreed to this. She was attractive enough. Two decades older than him, though she looked perhaps only one. Her breasts were still miraculously perky, even naked, and he was half certain it was blood magic. She was at least fair in the arrangement. They'd spent their wedding night together, not unpleasant but hardly the best night of his life, and beyond that wanted a marriage, loveless or otherwise, until the world was either ended or saved. After that, she would release him from the contract, smug in her accomplishment of bagging the Lion of Ferelden where her peers had failed. 

Leliana waved him off, the Inquisitor already departed for Skyhold some days before with the others. The Spy Master was the only one who had been able to remain until these last moments. He lifted his hand to her, sadly, and looked away along the road, wondering just where it would lead him. 

Perhaps this was punishment for his tryst in the Empress’s Bed chambers. There were no secrets in that place, even between a foreigner and Orlesian soldier. But, Maker, that man knew how to get at him. Knew what would draw his eye and hold it. Cullen thought back to that night, to the man in his lap, in full control, and wondered if he'd feel so depressed if the man had been a Duke, marrying him in exchange for an army…. 

The Duchess remained in her carriage for much of the morning, probably sleeping off a hangover, while Cullen rode alongside with some of the soldiers. Her servants sat on the carriage bench, even as it began to rain.

“Mon amour,” came her sing song in the afternoon. “Mon amour, come inside.” She was peering out of the window, face covered in thick white makeup, her dress changed. He bit back a curse. Why did she get changed. They weren't going to be seen by anyone… he was surprised he'd made out the changes at all, given how heavily the rain was coming down. He was drenched, foul faced, and looking onwards. 

“I can protect the carriage better from out here.”

“From what, Mon Cher?”

"Highwaymen.”

“We have soldiers,” she pointed out, still frustratingly amused. 

“I lead by example.”

“Very well,” she sighed, “but we aren't going to save you any cake.”

Damn. The cake was delicious. And half his by right of marriage. He looked across, she was still watching him, smiling. 

“Perhaps if madame can wait just a little longer, until we stop to rest.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen arrives at one of his wife's many estates and meets one of her many children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like long chapters and neither should you if you want to enjoy this.
> 
> I couldn't help it. Read Victoire’s voice in Isolde's. Oo eez zis woman teaGAN

The Marchand Estate was South of Halamshiral, and a few days leisurely ride from Skyhold. The mountains could be seen far on the horizon from his room in the East Wing. Three salons connected his bed chambers to Victoire’s and two of those doors were lockable and, thus, locked.

He kept the keys in the locks in case she had her own.

“Zis eez Sophie,” she told him, disinterestedly as she bustled into the mansion calling names and giving orders. 

The girl curtseyed to him and he bowed back, confused. She was well dressed and pretty, with only a sheer strip of fabric over her eyes. 

When Victoire flustered her way back, she stopped short, looked at the girl and stomped a foot. “Sophie! Mask!”

Again, the girl offered a small curtsey and disappeared down the hall. 

“Zat girl. She will be ze death of me.”

“Yes,” Cullen said, “and… She is?”

Victoire’s shoulders sagged and her head fell to the side before she smacked him lightly on the arm. “Bad Papa! Zat eez our youngest. ‘Er bruzzer iz…. Je ne sais pas, ” she shrugged, looking around. “Ah! Phillipe! Where iz my son?”

A man came forward, Cullen could easily have mistaken him for a noble had his uniform not matched those of the rest of the staff. All wore pale greens and a dull silver. 

“Monsieur has visited the DuFonts. They have a new trophy. A drake, I believe.”

Victoire tutted and then pulled the man to Cullen. “Your new Master.”

For a moment the commander thought she was talking to him, until the gentleman nodded his head and said “Your grace.”

“I really don't need-”

“You are a Duke now,” Victoire scolded, “you must 'ave a servant. Phillipe will see to all of your needs. No matter 'ow sordid.” She giggled and pinched his cheek before scuttling off, yapping more orders at the staff. 

“Uh…. Fleep, was it? Where… where will I be sleeping?”

“..... Madame tells me you sleep uneasy. You will share a salon but sleep separately when you wish. This way.”

And so Cullen found himself staring out the window at the mountains, thinking of his rickety old bed and the hole in his ceiling and wishing he was there. Instead, he was in a room with a bed many times the size of his own and more pillows than he'd find in all of Skyhold. The doors were locked, his bags still packed, as he retreated from the window and sat. 

“More men,” he told himself. “Makes your soldiers safer, the fight more certain. It is worth it.”

He didn't know how long he'd sat there, sinking into self loathing and self pity, when there was a knock at the door, a gentle tapping. When he opened it, Sophie was stood, a different mask adorning a her face. This one was like a muzzle, a painted smile covering her mouth, pretty ribbons trying it round the back. She bobbed with another curtsey and held something out to him. It was a book. _From petite Dejeuner to les souper: the dos and don'ts of the dinner table_. Though her real smile may have been hidden, it was clear in her eyes. 

“Is this a warning or an aid?” He asked. 

She gave a small shrug and left him standing at the door, book in hand, and wondering just how complicated a dinner table could be. The Winter Ball had been a buffet, one with more rules than food choices. With that in mind, he sat as the small writing desk and began reading. Within an hour the book had only taught him how to enter the room and when. At least it warned him that there was likely to be a dinner bell for relaxed meals so, when it sounded, he wasn't too alarmed. 

Putting the book down reluctantly, he made his way through the large halls, wide enough for a carriage, until he found the dining room. 

“Mon amour!” Victoire tittered. “What are you wearing?”

He looked down at his formal attire. The very attire he'd worn all day. 

His wife made a shrill sound that he vaguely recognised at his servant's name. “Why eez my 'usband dressed like zis?”

“Forgive me, madame, I was not called.”

“' e iz Fereldan,” she explained. “'e does not know any better. Nevermind. Zis evening you shall eat as you are. But tomorrow, you must remember to dress for dinner.”

Dress for dinner. Why. Why would one dress for dinner when one was already in smart enough attire. What difference did it bloody make?! 

“Cullen? Sit.”

Snapping out of his thoughts, he obeyed and looked at the table setting. The five forks. Three knives. Four spoons. 

“I'm… not this far in the book yet,” he admitted wryly, glancing up to Sophie. Her shoulders bounced in quiet laughter. 

“Book?” Victoire asked. 

“Yes. Sophie kindly gave me a book on manners at the table.”

“Oh. Did she now.” Victoire shot a look at her daughter and banged on the table to get her attention. “Which book? A good one? I will not 'ave you mock your papa.”

Sophie shook her head and looked down to her plate, a smile lifting her cheeks slightly. 

“I'm sure it's fine,” Cullen offered. “If a little… Long.”

And so they ate. Only three courses, most of the cutlery apparently for show. And throughout the meal, Cullen answered questions and listened to his wife talk and talk and talk. 

“And Sophie, what about you? What…do you do?”

The girl didn't look up. She continued to eat. 

“Ignore 'er, Mon Cher. She does not like to talk so she will pretend she doesn't' ear. She took a vow of silence when she was very young. Eccentric, but what mother would not be proud of such dedication?”

With that, Cullen was once again at the mercy of Victoire’s never ending talk.


End file.
